Lonely Lover's Lament
by Noir1
Summary: The depressed and longing diary entries of a certain character after the mansion incident...
1. Aftermath

Author's Note: it'll probably quickly become obvious who the narrator of this is, and about whom she is lamenting. However, this is just the product of my twisted mind, and quite a lot of contemplation, and does not reflect the canon story or timeline. I know this, so you needn't point it out to me. Also, if you can, please, don't flame me. If you want to criticize something that you dislike, at least tell me what it is. I can't improve unless you do.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
It's odd, truly, how this happened. Most see me as the 'young, innocent little girl,' but that's not the case. In fact, I'm the farthest from innocent that you'll ever find. Perhaps not as secular as some, but not at all innocent. Why is this, you ask? Maybe you didn't; regardless, I'm telling you. You're my diary, damn it, and if you don't listen to me, and if he's gone, no one else will.  
  
I still can't believe that he's gone. Whenever I see Chris, Jill, Barry, and Brad, I can't confront them with the truth. When they see how despondent I've become, I just give the 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder' show, and they leave me alone. Sometimes, I think that Jill knows that something else is wrong; maybe that 'women's intuition' really does exist. If it does, then maybe she's right about me not being a woman after all. Everyone thinks that 'poor little Rebecca' is upset about the mansion, about seeing my team torn to shreds before my eyes, about seeing so many people die, about seeing the terrors that only man can make. No, that's not it at all. Sure, seeing real-life zombies didn't exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, but it sure as hell didn't scar me for life.   
  
However, it's a lot easier as long as they believe that. I don't know how they'd treat me if they learned the truth. I don't know how I'd treat me if they learned the truth. Somehow, having a dirty little secret lessens the pain somewhat. Perhaps I'm just sick that way; if they learned the truth, and that I know what I know, they'd definitely call me sick. Don't misunderstand me, I didn't like seeing my team torn to shreds by those demon hounds. I didn't like seeing Speyer having to cut Dewey's hand off when it was caught in the helicopter wreckage, only to be carried off by those Cerberus Units... Excuse me, those 'devil dogs,' and seeing Dewey join his own hand among those beasts. However, the only one of those men that I really cared about was Marini. It was disturbing to see the look on his face as we made him abandon us, since he really cared about every member of the team, even myself. Sure, he treated me like his little girl sometimes, but he's a father; they all do that. He genuinely cared. I don't know what happened to him, whether or not he survived the initial battles, but he certainly didn't make it out alive when that mansion went up; I had to do it, though. I was under orders to cover-up the evidence, and make it look like 'childish tampering gone awry.'  
  
Yes, speaking of childish tampering, we have Chris Redfield. An honest man, but too idealistic to make a real soldier. That's probably why he was discharged from the Air Force. He struck a superior officer, or so the file said, but it didn't list the reason. Probably some command to do something that he didn't approve of. What a twit. He's not a stupid man, at least not tactically, and not academically, but, despite how good of a fighter he is, he's not worldly enough to see the whole picture of things. All of the S.T.A.R.S. suffer from that... All but the two of us. Now, I'm the only one that's left. I hope that he escaped, just as he planned, and that the virus worked. He said that he'd come back some day. I'm tired of following Umbrella's orders, being their good little mole, but I have to, so that I can keep scraping up information for Bioject. Where was I? Oh, right, Chris. I'm glad for his childish idealism. When I first met him in the mansion, I didn't 'think he was a zombie.' Those walking sacks of decaying flesh are usually too stupid to climb stairs, much less open doors. No, I had planned on killing as many S.T.A.R.S. as I could, so that I could just get the operation over with, and get the hell out of the mansion so that he could start the deception. However, when I saw that it was Chris, and how much he tried to fight that 'insect repellent (it was mace, but it would've looked somewhat suspicious if I had a canister of mace for fighting off the Ma-103s. Yes, everyone, a can of mace works better than a shotgun. The damn things have absolutely NO resistance to poisons or contaminants. The mace'll actually kill the poor bastards; their lungs have no ability to filter anything. They're failures, after all. Just economically practical failures),' I was very intrigued. If he could survive for that long with that stupid Bowie knife of his, I thought that he could be of some use, if only to shoot in the leg as a distraction. I owe him, and I hate it, though. I wish that I would've killed him. He screwed up our plans, along with that little bitch Jill! I hate that damn woman, and I hate how they stumbled into everything!  
  
Speaking of Jill, she was the anomaly of the group. No one expected that she'd survive that long. Hell, Brad had a longer life expectancy than she did. Wonder why, everyone? Barry. He was supposed to kill-off the little meddler before she could cause any trouble. Of course, he and his damn idealism had to spoil everything. We had speculated that she'd be one of those to survive the first confrontation with those 'monsters.' After all, ex-Delta means a lot, especially when you consider her age. So, we had Barry to even the odds. Unfortunately, Barry somehow learned that the threat against his family was all a hoax, and he stopped the Judas routine in time to prevent Jill from dying. Don't ask me how, but it happened. He should've just allowed Lisa Trevor to remove her face, and wear it for awhile. It would be saving me a lot of grief.   
  
Sure, Jill's a kind, if somewhat intrusive, woman, but I can't stomach her. She, Chris, and Barry ruined everything for us, and now they're trying to MAKE ME FEEL BETTER!!! At least Chickenheart stays the hell out of matters that don't concern him. If anyone survives this, it'll be him. Courage is knowing when to fight, and when to stay out of matters that aren't of any consequence to you, not blindly fighting everything that you can find. He'll escape Raccoon soon, and I truly hope that he does. He won't report anything, and Umbrella will probably ignore him. However, it's not that I want him to survive. I don't care what happens to him, to be honest. Even if the Ne-T unit shoved its tentacles down his throat and tore out his stomach, I'd be ambivalent. I just want more privacy, and more peace and quiet. Although Brad doesn't directly harass me about my 'depression,' he has a disturbing attraction toward me, and the times that he's asked me out are more numerous than the digits of pi to which I can count. I'm just glad that he rescued us by dropping that rocket launcher onto the helipad. Allies or not, that Tyrant had gone berserk, and it would've attacked me as well as the others.   
  
Now, I guess that brings me to the present. I don't know how he is, but I really miss him. He never showed his true nature to anyone but me, and that was only in private. The whispered words of affection after passionate lovemaking, his innocent advances. Yes, that's right, he was the innocent one in the relationship. Who would've thought, eh? I know that I'll see him again someday, because, although I feel truly sad... No, the agony his absence brings can't be described by words, and it would be trite and moot to say anything more descriptive, anyway... That he's not here right now, I know that he's still alive because I don't feel empty. Sure, for a woman of science, I'm still capable of believing in the arcane connection between lovers. We were a lot more than that, though. He's not cold at all, actually. He was my best, if only, friend; witty, interesting, and very, very kind. I remember that we'd meet as often as possible, which was very often. I had my own apartment, and no social life, aside from my parents, who really didn't care more than a 'normal' parent should. They were all-too-proud to have their 'brilliant baby' be commissioned by Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, inc., and never knew that I was 'recruited' by S.T.A.R.S. He and I met at Umbrella, not S.T.A.R.S., though. We met awhile before S.T.A.R.S. Awhile in my view, anyway. It was only a few months, but it seemed to be a very long time.   
  
It's bewildering to not awaken next to him, and actually be alone in my apartment, and I still can't get used to the cold bed next to me. I've taken to sleeping with a heated cushion, just so I don't cry in my sleep. I'll always just try to imagine how, whether we made love or not, we'd just lie together, and let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat subdue me into a contented sleep. His last words would always be, 'I love you, Rebecca.' That's why he made me wear that flak vest, 'just as a precaution.' He always loved me, and that's why he refused to let me take the virus, even though Birkin guaranteed that it was 99.9% effective. His response when I asked to use it was, '99.9% won't guarantee that I'll be able to sleep at night, and it won't guarantee that you'll come back to me.'  
  
Every night, I still whisper what I always would to him, even if he can't hear me.  
  
"Goodnight, Albert. I love you."   
  
  
  
  
Author's concluding note: yes, indeed, I have quite an interest in exploring all of the improbable aspects of any series. I think that Wesker and Rebecca would be an excellent pairing, if the conditions were correct, and since they aren't, I decided to change them. Again, this doesn't reflect the canon timeline and events, aside from the mansion incident, and Wesker's method of utilizing the 'dead-emulation' (I've no idea what its true name is...) virus. I certainly hope that you (the reader) enjoyed this. Guten Nacht. 


	2. Black is Black

Author's Note: although my original intention was to write a single- chapter piece, I discovered that I was unable to prevent myself from continuing this... It looks as though I may have yet ANOTHER novel to write. However, I'm certain that, considering the large amount of praise that I received for this piece, for which I'm more grateful than I could ever articulate, quite a few will appreciate the effort. I hope that this newest installment will not disappoint.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
As usual, my life continues to become worse. Umbrella is becoming considerably more paranoid about everything, and they've begun to monitor all of their agents' behavior, particularly in communications with 'unauthorized' personnel... I couldn't even talk to my mother for more than five minutes without a 'mysterious' disconnect, although, really, I'm grateful for that. Along with just about everyone in my life, she's expressed a sudden interest in it, for the only reason of which I can think: I'm 'depressed.' Yeah, that's damn right, but not for the reasons that they may assume.  
  
I seem to go off on tangents in my own diary, but not that it makes any difference; I don't even know why I'm bothering to keep this diary, anyway. No offense. Wait, did I just write that? Maybe I am less stable than I thought; I'm thinking of a diary as something sentient, now, after all. I don't know if I ever wish to remember this period of my life; no, unless he wants to read exactly what my thoughts at the time were, there's no true purpose for it for any future time. However, I think that I need something to communicate with, even if it's not human, or even if it's not organic. Maybe that's better; after all, you can't judge me, and you definitely can't harass me further or annoy me. You merely listen... Much like he did whenever I wasn't feeling well, or I was annoyed.  
  
Anyway, suddenly, especially after Irons ordered a 'psychiatric evaluation' of the staff (the man's on Umbrella's payroll, so it's obvious that he's not interested in 'curing' their minds, but just insinuating that they're insane. I wouldn't mind it, but I was forced to listen to that simpleton prattle on for hours and hours about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and so many other painfully clear subjects.. Apparently, he doesn't realize, or just doesn't care, that I graduated university at age eighteen with honors, with a medical degree, which did include some more- than basic psychology, along with organic chemistry. Although, the bastard was more interested in his less-than-subtle tactics of soliciting a date with me... First Chickenheart, and now this menace.), and it was 'leaked' by a 'mysterious source' in the RPD (my wager is on Irons himself) to the press. Thus, everyone believes that the S.T.A.R.S are insane, and, unfortunately, I'm among them. My mother nearly had a panic attack when she learned what happened, and that I was supposedly 'on drugs,' but, fortunately, her tendency to think the best of every situation calmed her far better than I ever could... Irresponsible simpleton-she's only concerned with her own image. After all, for all of my life, 'Rebecca, no, don't date him; he'll interfere with your studies. No, Rebecca, you can't do this or that; it'll interfere with your studies. No, you can't go to Germany; you have to meet the dean with your father and I.' Well, ignore that; I'm incredibly glad that I didn't go to Germany, because, at that meeting, I met Albert Wesker.  
  
As an interesting coincidence, Lord Spencer the Second, along with Spencer's 'brightest protegés,' Albert Wesker and William Birkin, had been invited to the annual alumni party at RCU, Raccoon City University (how ironic for one of America's smallest towns to have its own university) to meet the 'brilliant new graduate.' Naturally, my parents (well, my mother... Father could never refuse anything that she wanted. I truly pity the old man, but it's his own fault for being so easily dominated by something with a spine) caught wind of that, and demanded that I attend it, even though I hate parties, or anything social in general, because they would be allowed to come, and meet them. I didn't know anything about Lord Oswald Spencer the Second, except for that he'd followed in the far greater footsteps of his father, the creatively named Lord Oswald Spencer the First, who had shared the Nobel Prize in Genetics with Alexander Ashford years before; he was one of the largest shareholders in Umbrella, inc, as well. I didn't know anything about Albert Wesker, but I had heard about William Birkin, the brilliant young medical student that had made a name for himself in viral pathology during his university years.  
  
Upon arriving at the party, I was immediately struck with how incomprehensibly boring it was. Mother ran off, dragging Father behind her, to meet Spencer and the other 'high-class' guests. Although they were prominent chemists in their own right, my parents (again, my mother, but father never objected, per see) could never cope with their 'lower middle- class' upbringing. You wouldn't imagine that would be important in a small city such as Raccoon, but with the incredible wealth brought in by Umbrella, there were some very prominent members of society. I immediately recognized Birkin, and tried to speak with him, but, upon approaching him, I was just pushed-off by a curt nod and a grunted, 'hello.'  
  
That was the second disappointment of the night. However, as I stomped-off, fuming, and not really watching where I was going, I struck a wall. Well, the wall was wearing a black suit, and sunglasses, and had a dazzling smile, along with an obviously handsome face, framed by a close- cropped blonde head of hair. The wall was Albert Wesker.  
  
His first words to me were, 'Ms., are you all right? Do you need any help getting up?"  
  
Realizing that I had been staring at his face, and not picking myself off of the marble floor as I probably should've, I just shook my head dumbly, and stood, feeling my face heat as I stared down at the floor. I'm petite; all right, I'm short. Well, compared to him, anyway. I continued to stare at the floor, but he also just stood there. Eventually, after a bit, I managed to lift my head, and, for the first time, caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were probably his most startling feature, cobalt blue, sharp and cunning, yet sympathetic. I didn't know why he was wearing those stupid sunglasses at all.  
  
His sunglasses folded in his left hand, he extended his right toward me, and I eagerly took it, surprised by how gentle his grip was for such a large man. "My name is Albert Wesker," he began, "and your name is?"  
  
"R-Rebecca Chambers." I managed to stutter, and I kicked myself for how much of a child I seemed to be.  
  
"You're the newest graduate, aren't you? I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Chambers? Or may I call you Rebecca?" I was surprised at how smooth his voice sounded, without seeming oily, as most of the older people from the staff seemed to be.  
  
"Rebecca's fine, Mr. Wesker."  
  
"Please, call me Albert. I'm sorry that I was in your way; however, I can't really say that I'm not glad that I didn't block you. This party was so dull before you bumped into me." He smiled, and it nearly took my breath away.  
  
I just nodded, since I really had no idea what to say. However, he seemed quite interested in pursuing the conversation, and just continued as though I'd answered with some brilliant witticism.  
  
"Well, Rebecca, why did you run into me, if you don't mind my asking?"  
  
"I was just a bit angry. William Birkin was more of a conceited jackass than I thought he'd be."  
  
"I think that William's mind just isn't all here, right now."  
  
"Do you know him?"  
  
"Yes, I do. We're both researchers at Umbrella, inc. You've undoubtedly heard of his research, but I doubt that you know who I am."  
  
"I'm sorry..." I cursed my luck once again that night.  
  
"It's all right. I haven't been published before, after all. My doctoral thesis was patented, so no one's read it. I really haven't done any public work, either."  
  
"Do you mind not getting any adulation?"  
  
"No, not really. I've always liked working in the shadows." This piqued my curiosity.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I'd rather do something in secret, and really have it be worth something, than do it publicly, and have it be worthless. No one ever accomplishes anything in public. Private research is where everything that's important is done."  
  
"So, Dr. Birkin's public work means nothing?"  
  
He grinned, and nodded in acknowledgement of that. That grin of his was contagious, and I felt as though he'd let me in on some monumental secret; something that only he and I knew, and that I could feel proud to keep.  
  
"Looks like Birkin and Spencer are occupied with that schmoozing couple over there," he was pointing to my parents, and I could barely hold back my laughter, "do you want to just leave and do something fun?" Somehow, the manner in which he spoke didn't make what would normally seem to be innuendo disgustingly and overtly perverted.  
  
My parents weren't very pleased when they couldn't locate me when they wanted to introduce me to Spencer and Birkin. However, at that time, I didn't care; I still don't.  
  
His definition of 'fun' definitely was fun, albeit a bit unusual. Not that I was complaining, mind you. We spent the entire night exploring Raccoon Forest. Despite having lived in Raccoon for all of my life, I'd rarely been in the forest, and on the few occasions that I did visit it, I didn't travel deep into it. That night, however, we just spent the night ruining our clothes, walking in the crisp autumn air, his jacket placed around my shoulders, and a pilfered flashlight (hey, I think that I deserved to take that from the janitor's closet. After all, I boosted the credibility of that university quite a lot) lighting our path. We alternated between chatting, I complaining about my overbearing parents, and the annoyances of school life, and he telling me about his life, and just listening to the beautiful noises that one can only experience fully in the quiet, cavernous depths of a forest.  
  
He told me so much about himself, about how, after his parents died the year that he graduated from high school, he enlisted in the Army for tuition, about his experiences in the service, as well as his schooling at RCU. Eventually, he came to the point at which he said that, if I wanted him to continue, I had to accept the request that would surely follow. At that point, I said yes. I still don't regret it.  
  
He explained to me what his Doctoral thesis was about: controlled, DNA mutating 'smart' DNA viruses. His research was initially intended to treat cancer, HIV, and so many other 'untreatable' conditions, but soon attracted the interest of Umbrella, inc., and he immediately accepted their employment offer. After working with Birkin for some time, he learned to what it could really be applied: weapons. Not only weapons directly against humans, but true, thinking weapons. BOWs: the BioOrganic Weapons. I thought that I would've been appalled; I was fascinated. I was convinced that this could benefit humankind more than any 'benign' research ever could; that, through this, all of humanity's faults could be erased. I knew that, to quote a clichéd phrase, 'you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.' Everyone's always surprised to learn that I'm such a cynical, objective person. However, as I said before, I'm not innocent.  
  
After that, he offered me a position as a researcher beside he and Birkin in Umbrella, inc. I really had no choice in the matter; after all, I'd already promised him that I would. Regardless, I wanted to do so, anyway.  
  
After I agreed, he smiled that radiant smile of his, and, for the first time in my life, I really gave into my emotions; I kissed him. However, his response surprised me far more than my own spontaneity: he grasped me, and deepened the kiss, until we were both lying on the soft, leaf-padded forest ground, tentatively parted for a moment, and gasping for air as we looked upward toward the star-speckled night sky, before returning our attention to each other..  
  
  
  
Well, this is just great. I'm going to stop remembering these things, because, whenever I go far enough, I can't stop. I'm already crying, and I really don't want to ruin this entire diary. Tomorrow, it'll just be the same: I'll report to the precinct, even though, technically, we're not supposed to be 'on-duty' (it still seems to mean that we're entrusted to file paperwork... Just great. Even if Irons is an Umbrella subservient, I really want to kill that man), ignore Chickenheart's advances as calmly as I can, play the 'traumatized new recruit' for Chris, Jill, and Barry, and try to not shoot myself and\or everyone else in the department from sheer boredom. Maybe I'll manage to lose myself in the mundane routine; I'm lying to myself again. I can't stop thinking about him, and it takes all of my strength not to breakdown when I see his desk.  
  
Albert, come back to me soon. I miss you so much.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's note: I truly hope that this thoroughly belated (relationship complications, combined with dual-enrollment puts a crimp in your writing schedule, I'm afraid...) chapter has met (hopefully exceeded) the expectations of those wonderful fans of my 'first chapter.' If not, please, be honest, and tell me that it's not adequate. I'm not that confident in it myself, and, if it's mediocre, I'd really appreciate a very blunt review. I hope that Rebecca's narration seemed adequately subjective for a diary description, and not too prose-like (even though it was). Also, if she seems too longing and depressed, simply chalk that up to my current state, and just inform me that it didn't seem concurrent with the rest of the piece (which happens to just be the first chapter...). To everyone that's read (suffered?) through this piece: thank you! I truly appreciate any readers, and reviewing is a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. I can't express enough gratitude to all of those wonderfully kind reviewers of the first chapter, and I truly, truly hope that this is as well-received. I'm dragging myself away from the word-processor, now, so that I don't expand this author's note into its own chapter. Guten Nacht, Alles! 


	3. Romance

Author's Notes: Again, I'm eternally grateful for those incredibly kind reviews that I've received from a surprising number of people... I'm unbelievably glad that so many enjoyed this piece, and I shall definitely continue to develop it. I apologize for the rather large delays between chapters, but, as stated previously, relationship complications and dual- enrollment in university can place quite a crimp in your writing schedule..  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
Well, today was really, unbelievably awful. Irons, that lousy mound of incompetence, decided to not only force us to attend another psychiatric session, but also decided that it should be a GROUP SESSION. I thought today would be terrible, but I didn't realize that it would be this agonizing.  
  
What a truly magnificent joy it was to sit in a room with three people that I hate with an intense passion, and one other whose sole purpose seems to be to solicit dates with me, and listen to some idiot drone on and on about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the dangers of not "communicating our problems to others," and other nonsensical psycho-babble that really has no practical purpose. This man is NOT what Freud wanted to represent the psychiatric sciences... Hell, none of these morons are. Of course, this is probably Irons' way of telling us that it would be a lot easier if we committed suicide, and were permanently out of Umbrella's hair.  
  
Perhaps I should start at the beginning... I had the misfortune of arriving late, and being cooed over by Jill, somehow now my surrogate mother, because I looked horribly haggard... My description, not hers. Yeah, I'll admit it; I'm haggard. Not in the sense of appearances, even though I do look older than eighteen, but just in my demeanor... Damn right, I'd say. I haven't slept well in days, and the time that I have been asleep has been a torrent of agonizing memories of Albert that cause me to wake up sobbing, because I know that they're only dreams... Damn, it's just been one memory after another torn from the depths of so many, and made so real that, when I awake, I expect to feel the warm mass of his body next to me, and hear him tell me, "Rebecca, I'm still here. You just had a nightmare; you're all right, and I'll always be here next to you."  
  
It's only been two weeks since the last time that I felt him next to me, that we made love, but it feels as though it's been an eternity; it may as well have been. This intense agony is something that I never thought that I'd feel, something that I never thought was possible, but it's a constant specter in my life, standing over my shoulder, taunting me, daring me to take that final step, and to just be rid of this excruciating pain... I won't reach for that Beretta in the drawer; I won't reach for that bottle of wine, because I know that I won't be able to stop if I do. That demon will take control if I even seriously consider that final step, and I won't let it... He promised me that he'd return, and I believe him.  
  
After that 'meeting,' the psychiatrist made us travel back into the woods surrounding the Spencer Mansion, because it would be a 'healing experience.' Hardly. There's nothing there any longer, as, even if there were remnants of BOWs or evidence, Umbrella's UBCS, its mercenary dogs of war; or the elite ERRT, the Emergency Recover and Response Team (quite a diplomatic maneuvering of words; their purpose is to kill witnesses, recover important objects, and to destroy evidence), would have destroyed it by now. Of course, Bioject's HCF division would've also recovered Albert... I can't hope enough that they were successful. Of course, according to Birkin, it would take a small army to stop something that awoke after the use of the 'dead-emulation (DE) virus.' What a wonder of genetic manipulation... Instead of causing cellular degradation and rapid, artificial 'aging' of the organic systems; along with an incapacitation of all but the most basic motor-control and 'lizard' instinct sections of the brain, which the T, G, and T-Veronica-Viruses accomplished, that virus causes an exponential growth of function... A human becomes an unstoppable force in only a few hours. However, that was the only sample, and it disappears entirely from the body a few hours after the effects reach their peak... Bioject can't have it; Albert is the only one that possesses it, now, and nothing can stop him.  
  
Well, we stood in the woods, just staring at the charred, blackened remains of the Bravo Team helicopter, dark ichors, the blood of fallen 'comrades,' coating the ground around it. So many lives were lost; however, I can't bring myself to truly care, except for Marini. All of those others were nuisances; insignificant menaces... I didn't like seeing them die in such horrible ways, but it was my duty to kill them, anyway, and it just made my job easier; it's sick, I know, but I'm glad that they died by the hands of these monsters, because it alleviated my conscience at least somewhat.  
  
However, there is something special, and something so ironic about this spot... This very point, this very copse of blackened trees was the site of that first, magnificent, magical night... I can still see where, laughing, he carved, "RC+AW"... Insignificant initials, carved in a fit of fancy on a tree; something completely anonymous to anyone else, but not to me...  
  
That incredible night... After that chance encounter at that horribly dull party, our inadvertent collision, and that spontaneous decision to go out exploring... Logically, I should've been wary about exploring a dark, deserted woods with someone that I'd just met, someone that very well could've been as dangerous and evil as he was charming. However, that night, I threw logic out the window. I never regretted it, and I never will. Logically, I never should've kissed him upon just seeing that brilliant, electric smile of his, but logic didn't matter that night.  
  
After we first kissed, and separated for that brief, yet seemingly infinite moment, while we looked up at the only witnesses to that seemingly enchanted evening: the moon, the planets, and the stars; I felt as though my heart and mind would burst. A euphoria so intense, so brilliant, that I couldn't believe it... I was so terrified for time to continue on, that he might've just been spontaneously responding, and that he didn't really feel that way, but I was also anxious, because I still had that hope that he really felt how I did, that his charm was reserved only for me, even though we'd just met.  
  
I still can't help but grin stupidly when I remember that... Returning our attention to each other after the moment of helpless, breathless tension, our eyes met again, and, rising minutely from the slightly damp, yet wonderfully comfortable, leaf-padded ground, I lunged at him, landing fully on top of him, and pressing my mouth to his again. I knew as I opened my eyes, and saw the intense passion raging in his own; cobalt, dark and slightly-lidded with that euphoric high that I'd only read about, that he felt as I did, that there was no mistake, no turning back. I knew that my own eyes were the same, and, even though we were still seemingly completely linked, our bodies and lips pressed together, I think that his head nodded minutely, almost imperceptibly.  
  
I felt his hands gently stroke along the length of my back to my hair, and run through it, his hands moving so gently that it was only a ghost of a touch, that I had to imagine more than feel it; the sensation that it brought was like a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins, and I whimpered against his lips, just from the sheer ecstasy of it. I could feel his lips turn upwards into what I imagined to be a dark, passionate, yet still gentle and caring version of that usual- if you could call something so majestic usual- brilliant smile of his, and his other hand played along my back, still only a specter of a sensation, all of my senses devoted to feeling that light, yet so intense, feeling.  
  
I closed my eyes again, and just gave into the wave of euphoria that I was riding, that he was creating for me, and let him lead me to the peak. I could feel him gently press my lips more forcefully against his, but the pressure was never too rough, never too powerful, to destroy that electric gentleness. I felt his hands gently run across the expanse of my body, questing to bring as much sensation as possible with those unbelievably light, yet so powerful touches, until they reached my waist, and I opened my eyes disappointedly as I felt his lips pull away from mine, dissatisfaction evident in my expression.  
  
"Rebecca," he began, "will you let me go further? If this is too fast, then just tell me... I don't want to push you into anything."  
  
I frowned for a moment, and then I saw a flash of pain dart through his expression, and I realized that he misunderstood what I mean, and in that, that he really cared, that he didn't just want a cheap night with some inexperienced, naive girl in a world too large for her.  
  
To my surprise, and his, I laughed softly, and then spoke, my voice more gentle and fragile than I'd ever heard it. "Albert, of course I want you to continue. I know that this is only our first day; hell, our first night knowing each other, but that doesn't matter... People fall in love all the time, don't they? Why should we be any different?" I didn't directly say that I loved him, but it was what I felt, and what he knew, also. It would've been stupid and redundant to say it after that.  
  
His response was an almost shocked opening of his mouth, as though he didn't expect me to have such practical wisdom about people, and then a return of that gentle, beautiful smile. "I love you too, Rebecca. Let me show you how much I love you..."  
  
I felt him gently unzip my dress, his hands running along my exposed flesh, and I was lost in a wave of sensation. I barely was able to coherently think in that intense blur of joy and love that seemed to be both mere seconds, but also infinity. That first, sharp, almost overwhelming pain, his whispered apologies, and then the complete collapse of it in the face of the pure, overwhelming sensation of ecstasy as we became one, as we were truly joined. I still can feel the kisses, the slow, gentle rocking, the incredible pleasure of mind, body, and emotion, and that final, explosive, mind-numbing plummet from the precipice, a clarity of mind finally returning after what seemed to be hours.  
  
I felt the cooling sweat on our bodies in the crisp air, the blanket that we'd made of our clothes, and the incredible, comforting warmth of his strong, inviting body against mine. My head on his chest, we just lay there for hours, gently drifting off into a light, exhausted slumber, before he woke me. "Rebecca, it's almost four AM," his gentle, yet insistent bass voice roused me from my shallow sleep.  
  
"Mmmm...." I groaned, before drowsily opening my eyes. "How long have we been asleep?" I mumbled.  
  
"Probably three hours, Rebecca. Why don't I take you home?"  
  
"What? Of course not. Can't we go back to your apartment?"  
  
He chuckled for a moment, and then replied, "I see your point... Yes, let's get dressed and return to my apartment." He whispered gently before kissing me lightly, and stroking through my hair.  
  
Smiling drowsily, I regretfully rose, and then slipped into my dress, still feeling too tired to think coherently. I grinned languidly as I watched him lazily step into his clothes, occasionally stumbling on his pants, and then grasped his arm as he led me back to the car, and then to his apartment...  
  
My parents didn't exactly appreciate that I never returned that night, but I didn't care. I still don't.  
  
As usual, I'm crying, but I still feel better, now that I've remembered this... Even if I feel horribly lonely, and these reminiscences definitely aren't helping, the memories still are a comfort...  
  
Goodnight, Albert; I love you.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's note: Well, the third chapter is finally complete. After much not so gentle prodding by Cherry (both Rebecca and I thank you for that, by the way), I finally forced Rebecca to speak... And, well, this came from it. I hope that it didn't seem too wistful and sappy, but, well, she's remembering Wesker and their first really romantic experience... Don't worry, however: much angst and more disturbing revelations will follow. And, if you're those that are wondering why there isn't any violence: although this is a primarily romantic piece, this is still Resident Evil, so, eventually, there will be some gruesome action. Also, I tried to make the love scene as romantic and non-graphic as possible; I hope that I succeeded. Again, thank you to those that suffered through this, and all of the preceding pieces, and a massive, 'thank you,' to all those that reviewed this. Guten Nacht, Alle! 


	4. Silent Pain

Author's Notes: My, this must be a record for the shortest delay between chapters in this entire series. Well, that can be owed to the gentle (read: brutal and relentless) prodding of Cherry... I'm really appreciative of said prodding, however, because it's a great inspiration to write. Again, thank you so much to all of those that bothered to read this, and an even more massive, 'thank you,' to all those that reviewed it.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
Why is it that, whenever I assert that things can't possibly become any worse in this diary, they always do? Chris and Barry are departing, and the conditions are bound to become quite a lot worse...  
  
Why would they be worse, you ask? Yes, considering how much I hate those meddling, condescending bastards, I should be glad that they're going, shouldn't I? Well, sorry to say, but only they are leaving. My self-proclaimed 'protector and surrogate mother,' the not-so-lovely Jill Valentine, along with Chickenheart, is staying behind... What an incredible joy. For someone that essentially ignored me for weeks preceding the 'Spencer Mansion Incident,' as the papers have taken to calling that debacle, and for which I was incredibly glad, she certainly perceives herself as my best friend, now. "The girls have to stay together, after all," was her justification. I'm not certain how she sees me... Wait, I know exactly how she sees me; it's the same as everyone else, from my parents, to Chickenheart: the 'innocent, naive, defenseless little girl in a situation too big for her.'  
  
They couldn't be further from the truth, but it's far better if they believe what they believe. I haven't yet received the orders from Umbrella to depart from here, upon which an HCF 'raid' will occur, resulting in the 'kidnapping' of one of Umbrella's agents and scientists, and I still need to maintain my cover here. It's annoying to have them act on those engineered preconceptions, but, really, I suppose that it's more beneficial for them to be ignorant, than avert some annoyance... However, there was always one person who never believed it, even before the 'innocent' routine was a contrivance of Umbrella's: Albert... Ever since that first meeting, he never treated me like a child; he never treated me as though I was some less mature, less sophisticated person; he never treated me as though I was someone to be condescended to...  
  
All of my thoughts turn to him, and, really, I should be glad that they do, as it indicates how deep our bond is... However, it's absolutely agonizing, as well, because the thoughts are all I have left until we can meet, and I know it; even the most remote thought can drudge up the most remote memory, which starts an explosive downward spiral until I'm just staring at the ceiling, or at this diary, sobbing until I collapse from exhaustion.  
  
The exhaustion, however, during the day isn't only from my tears, although it's becoming almost impossible to restrain them whenever I look at his desk, especially when the others discuss how, 'awful he was.' I nearly shot those two idiots today, and I truly wish that I would've... After all, the offices are nearly soundproof, and the hallways around the 'insane' S.T.A.R.S. are all but deserted, considering the reputation that Irons has given this section. Not that I really cared about being friends with any of the other members of the department, those irritating, uncouth idiots, but it's beyond infuriating to be the laughingstock of, not only the section, but the entire department.  
  
Jill and Chickenheart, however, are the worst... They see some type of camaraderie with me as 'Spencer Mansion Survivors...' Well, I suppose that I'll allow them their delusions. Their survival was entirely coincidental... Also, it seems that Chickenheart hardly 'survived' the incident; rather, he fled the instant that they encountered the 'Cerberus' units, and merely hovered over the complex until morning, when he threw that rocket launcher onto the helipad and extracted us. They continue to assert that, 'Umbrella must be taken down,' and that, 'the people have to know what's really going on...' It's truly amazing how ignorant they are, when they believe that they know everything about this conspiracy, and all parties involved...  
  
They haven't yet mentioned Bioject's HCF Branch, which implies that they really have no idea what's happening. All they know is what limited data they obtained from the mansion before I 'accidentally' triggered its self-destruct, and what Chickenheart hacked from the Umbrella 'Blue Queen' mainframe. However, what Chickenheart hacked is a hoax; 'Blue Queen' is the codename of Gray Umbrella's, the intelligence division's, diversionary mainframe. Chickenheart may considered himself a brilliant hacker, but that's as far as he'll ever go... Not only is the real 'Red Queen' mainframe controlled and monitored by its own AI, the 'Black Knight,' but the 'entrances' to the main system are guarded by the 'Legion': a force of C-I H (Computer-Integrated Human) units.  
  
However, all of this is of no reassurance... The fact that they're completely ignorant of Umbrella may prove to be even worse than them having some knowledge, as Umbrella is truly my enemy, also, now that Albert and I are with Bioject. But, until I manage to escape from Raccoon, and be 'kidnapped,' it would be unfeasible to act in any resistance role; besides, the S.T.A.R.S. are also enemies, which creates a true dilemma. I'll definitely report the movements of Barry and Chris into Europe, and, perhaps, attempt to patronize Jill, and let her believe that I care about their little resistance... Regardless of how much it pains me, I'll have to pretend to be an ally to her to obtain data; I may as well let Umbrella do the work for me, after all. If it comes to it being essential, however, I'll do what those BOWs were unable to manage: I'll kill the remainder of the S.T.A.R.S., and ensure that they're never a bother to Bioject.  
  
Damn it, this is pointless... Regardless of how I struggle; regardless of how I attempt to concentrate on the issue at-hand, I can't forget him for a second... It's impossible to do anything without thinking of him. It's agonizing to go to work, because I have to stare at his desk, all of his belongings still perched on top of it, the photograph of me still in the left drawer... But it's impossible to stay home without agony, because, whenever I enter this apartment, I'm greeted by thousands of reminders: his subtle, clean, and understated, yet so alluring scent of soap and shampoo; the slight indent in the bed from his lean, muscular body; and the photographs that I have perched on my desk. Secret scenes of us that no one has ever seen; scenes of hidden tenderness and rare, unadulterated joy and pleasure; scenes of deep, unrestrained caring and love... Even if they were to all disappear, I remember everything perfectly; where they're situated, what they contain, what the photograph didn't show... Everything about our lives, I've committed to memory; it's all I have left, until we can meet again. The 'kidnapping' is in one week; I don't know if I can wait that long. Something odd is occurring, and I think that it may have something to do with Birkin's research.  
  
Birkin is also intending to defect to Bioject, due to his discontent with Umbrella, and he carries an 'Ace,' as it were: the 'G' virus. An improved version of the 'T' virus, it slows mutation down to a manageable level, meaning that there are no 'zombies' or rapidly decaying organisms, which die within ninety-six hours of exposure. Instead, it's a directly- injected form that is programmable to modify 'evolutionary' processes, resulting in an almost 100% organic compatibility rate with the virus, allowing the occurrence of 'Tyrant' beings to be nearly 100%; the 'T'-virus only offered 4%, in contrast.  
  
However, in past communiques from Umbrella to the Intelligence Officer of the area, some man named Nicholai, who's pitting both Bioject and Umbrella against one-another for profit (at the moment, he's too valuable to abandon; however, he'll become a 'casualty' later), it's been said that Birkin's becoming, 'too fringe,' and might, 'be a danger to pre- existing assets in the city.' I fear the worst; after all, that's what one always has to fear in these situations. Regardless of how superior Bioject, inc., is, Umbrella can't be underestimated. They've made 'enemies' disappear many times in the past, with their elite 'cleaner' units, and they certainly are capable of doing so again; even Birkin and I are no exception.  
  
Thus, I'll have to report all of this to Birkin, probably through Annette, and just hope that he heeds my advice to halt his research and just patronize the Umbrella investigators that will undoubtedly come sometime in the near future. If I can't, Annette certainly can manage that. It seems so long ago that I first met these people, when it was really less than a year ago... After that first, magical night with Albert, my future was solidified; I never looked back, and I never hope to. He taught me to choose the truth that I like, the truth that suits me, and my own ideals, not those that have been shoved down our throats by the world.  
  
I'll never forget our return to his apartment that night; I felt as though I was completely drunk, and giddy with excitement, even though it was probably four AM.  
  
As we walked slowly back through the woods to his car, his jacket around my shoulders, and his warm, gentle hands tenderly massaging the exposed skin of my back, I just stared at him, completely in awe. I wasn't taken with self-doubt as I thought that I would've; I didn't wonder if I really deserved to be with such a brilliant, magnificent man, but I did wonder how anyone could possibly be so perfect. Even though I'm an existentialist, Albert Wesker is still just so magnificent that it could restore anyone's faith in the divine creation of some beings.  
  
Occasionally, since he was the one monitoring the trail through slightly drowsy, but still brilliant, sharp, and alert, eyes, he'd turn his head minutely toward me, but I know that all of his conscious attention was on me; he just left his peripheral vision to his unconscious. However, even that was occupied with me quite a lot; he occasionally would stumble on some easily avoided obstruction, and that act of bumbling was one of the most flattering things anyone could've done for me. Even after we made love, his hands still stayed well above my waist, and he never dared to do anything without asking permission; quite a contrast to how in-command he acts around others. However, it's just that: an act... He's the most kind, gentle, and wonderfully loving person I've ever met... It's ironic, really, how the both of us, despite how we act with one another, still have jobs that involve acting in a manner that's the complete opposite of our personalities.  
  
When we reached the clearing, where his modest, yet very comfortable, car sat, he shifted his attention entirely to me, and fixed those incredible, cobalt eyes completely on me, that passionate, loving, intense gaze never faltering from their fixation of my own eyes. Smiling gently, his lips curving upwards in a physically conservative, yet so emotionally influential, expression, he moved closer to me, and brought his face down close to mine, his breath tickling my nose as he just gazed at me; I was utterly transfixed, almost hypnotized, and I know that I wouldn't have been able to escape if I wanted. I never would.  
  
Closing my eyes, and exhaling slightly, I closed the distance between our lips, and pressed my forehead to his as we kissed, the soft, yet still firm flesh of his lips feeling so gloriously pleasant against my own. I felt his arms encircle me, and my heart started to beat in an even more staccato rhythm. I arched into his touch, and I felt him draw me closer to his own body, his warmth all the more pleasurable in the crisp, cold air. Parting hesitantly, I panted breathlessly, and felt my face flushed, a brilliant contrast to the chilly air around us. His own face was stained a light crimson, and his mouth was an even more magnificent smile, his lips slightly puffy from the intensity of the kiss.  
  
Although I was almost anchored in place by the intensity of his gaze, my own desire to feel his body against mine again overpowered all other forces, and I grasped him tightly, pressing my own lips against his in a needing fashion, the passion almost brutal in its intensity. I felt him gasp against my mouth, and I deepened the kiss further, my enthusiasm surprising him even more. I felt his body pressed tightly to mine, and I was completely enraptured, unable to halt the embrace, and only stopping for a brief moment to catch my breath before continuing. Finally stopping, knowing that both of our mouths were bruised, but not caring at all, and smiling in tandem with him, almost feeling that mine mimicked his, I pressed my head to his chest, inhaling his warm, masculine, yet still somehow delicate, scent, and listening to the steady pulse of his heartbeat.  
  
If heaven exists, then that, and all of our other moments together, certainly is far better than it could ever be.  
  
I miss him so badly; I can't stop crying, but I don't know if I want to stop... If this is the pain of love, and the memories of that love, then I want it. We'll be together soon; I know that we will. However, until then, it'll be an agonizing experience just to live. If I sleep tonight, I want to dream of you, Albert. I love you.  
  
  
  
Author's Notes: Indeed, this is my record for completion time of any of these other chapters. A monumental, 'thank you,' must be given to Cherry for all of her wonderful encouragement and company while writing this. Also, huge amounts of thanks must be given to all of those that took the time to read this fledgling piece, and even more to those that reviewed it. Bis spater, Alle! 


	5. Premonition

Author's Note: yet another record, it seems... I've actually managed to write two chapters without a single day of separation between the completion of the last and the commencement of the next. I'm becoming quite a bit more familiar with this pairing, but a major aspect of this drive to write so constantly has been the massive encouragement from so many of the wonderfully, magnificently kind reviewers, and, in particular, the incredible Cherry.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
There's one day remaining until the 'kidnapping' by Bioject's HCF, but it still feels as though it's an eternity away. I'm not certain how I managed to survive this overwhelming agony for such a great duration, but it almost seems that, as the time of escape from this nightmare grows nearer, time slows further... I hate this; I always ask myself why it can't be today, and not tomorrow... However, it seems that it won't be necessary to exterminate the S.T.A.R.S., as they're completely ignorant of virtually everything except for the most basic aspects of this situation.  
  
However, I did intend to dispose of that 'supervisor,' Nicholai. He's a potential liability, and I fear that, if captured, he may reveal everything about our communication. Unfortunately, the man has now disappeared, and has yet to be located, despite the degree of effort that my HCF contacts have exerted in attempting to find him. Regardless, he's only aware of my discontent with Umbrella, and my intention to join another 'organization.' Once I escape, he'll be unable to discover to where I've disappeared, so his information will be valueless.  
  
There is only one problem, though: Birkin. Somehow, all communications with the subsurface laboratory has ceased, and there have been no reports from Umbrella, or HCF, for that matter, about what's happened. Also, there has been reports of murders that characterized the 'zombie attacks' that preceded the 'Spencer Mansion incident,' and I can only fear the worst about what's happened in that sprawling complex. If an outbreak did occur, despite the exceptionally effective seals, something could still escape, particularly a desperate researcher, or some personnel able to escape shortly after contamination.  
  
Although I don't wish for any great disaster to occur in Raccoon, I truly don't care, either. This is Umbrella's pet city, and one of its centers of power. An enormous amount of assets and technology have been funneled into this once-quaint mid-Western city, and it would be a massive loss for Umbrella to ever lose influence, or control entirely, over this now-metropolitan area. Despite the fact that Umbrella, inc., has nearly absolute political influence in the government, even it would be unable to disguise the fact that some monumental disaster occurred in a city financed, and basically controlled, by the world's largest corporation.  
  
Wait, there were reports shortly before the loss of contact about the investigation team that was dispatched to 'keep Birkin in line,' and their emergence from the complex has yet to be reported. This wouldn't be the first time that a small skirmish has erupted in a lab complex, but this would be the most potentially disastrous; the last incidents were in remote, isolated areas, far from civilization, not only several hundred meters beneath a city.  
  
However, this isn't the only agony that's erupted in the day before my joyous escape to freedom: the S.T.A.R.S., particularly Jill, seem insistent on deepening some perceived bond between them and myself. It's now becoming nearly impossible to resist the urge to kill them, as they insist on inviting me continually to all of their inane social occasions; all of their idle chatter, all of their worthless ideas and anecdotes, and all of Jill's attempts to 'cheer me up.' For someone that prides herself on being incredibly capable of interpreting people, she certainly is completely ignorant of my reasons for my state of 'depression'.  
  
Well, perhaps it's merely her own delusions that I've endured some horrible trauma as a result of the 'mansion incident' that's causing this gross misunderstanding, and, although it's infuriating to have her dote over me, and act as though I'm some type of scarred child, it is a bit less complicated than having to explain the true reason; I still wish to shoot her, though. I'm becoming intensely tired of her insistence on 'being my friend,' and prattling on and on about Chris, and how 'heroic and wonderful' he is... He, and she, are the causes of this entire disaster; their actions, their insipid, coincidental meddling caused all of this agony, all of this excruciating pain!  
  
I just have to remind myself that this will soon end; that, tomorrow, this truly horrible period of my life will have ended... Just fifteen more hours and all of this will be complete. Perhaps it's true that one must endure a trial of almost intolerable pain to prove that they're worthy of what they desire most; that they truly have the fortitude and perseverance to grasp their greatest wish, regardless of the agony. That is of no reassurance, however... It's been three months since I last saw him, since we last made love, since we last spoke... I can't tolerate this any longer. I can't take this pain.  
  
I can see everything about him, every feature, every mannerism, vividly, perfectly. But, because of that, those vivid memories and inspired dreams are all the more painful, because, until I awake, I can't discern them from reality; the false sense of hope that's instantly crushed when I awaken to find a cold, lonely bed, and a vacant apartment is worse than a lack of any whatsoever... Hopelessness can't cause delusion; it's a cruel, objective force, but, at the very least, it's not sinister; it causes no false enthusiasm, it causes no false joy, no false happiness.  
  
I've cleared what is necessary out of this apartment, which is virtually nothing, except for all of the photographs of us, some clothing, and my Beretta. I wish that I could take all of the incredible memories of us from this place, but it's impossible; however, even without those beautiful, yet now so melancholy, reminders in this apartment, I'll never be able to forget any of it. This will probably be the last diary entry that I'll ever need, that I'll ever wish to keep, but I'll always keep this... I want to show him exactly how I felt without him. Perhaps it's selfish, perhaps it's just a selfish desire to make him know exactly how I felt, but it's not a desire to cause guilt. No, I could never do that; I could never want to do that. This decision was mutual, and we both were aware of the consequences of it.  
  
He always knew how I felt, what I felt, and he always knew what to do; he knew how to erase the pain, how to make any problem seem utterly insignificant. I want so badly to feel his warm, inviting body against mine; to feel the delightful gentleness of his touch; the reassuring strength of his embrace. This pain is becoming more severe with each passing moment; with each moment that I know that I can't be with him when I wish; that I can't see him, and I can't touch him, my resilience to everything lessens. He provides strength to me and I to him. The mutuality of it is something that most lack, that most never find... The prospect of losing that is too great for me to bear. I have to be strong, and I can't let myself concede to that demon's call; that demand to end my suffering now.  
  
The last time that I felt that embrace was so long ago... I still remember it vividly, however. I'll never forget anything about him. The day itself seemed to be so ominous; a new murder, a desperate investigation into the source by the police, and our efforts to distract the police from the Spencer Mansion until the 'proper time' arrived; that which was assigned by Umbrella to lure them into the 'testing grounds.' The researchers there never realized that the outbreak of the T-virus was intentional; that they were merely guinea pigs along with the S.T.A.R.S. In a sick twist of irony, they became experiments themselves, and the S.T.A.R.S. were the testers, and the tested.  
  
That night, he and I made love for what we knew would be the last time before the 'deception,' and could be the last time for months.  
  
That night, the two of us just stayed at my apartment, and sat together in silence for most of the night, my head on his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart calming me, because I knew that this would be our last night together. I had cried for almost the entirety of that day after work; I was barely able to restrain them during work. However, as the time approached nine, I felt him shift slightly, and his hand gently cupped my chin, and raised my face to his own, his warm, expressive cobalt eyes drawing me into their depths.  
  
He slowly brought his face closer to mine, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the warm ecstasy of his lips against mine, of the melding of our bodies. His arms slowly encircled my waist, and his hands softly, cautiously trekked across my back, the ghostly sensation sending shivers of anticipation and pleasure up my spine. I leaned into his embrace, deepening the kiss, and opening my eyes, wanting to see his own; wanting to see that intense expression of affection and passion clouding their usually clear and sharp depths.  
  
Parting hesitantly, only because of the unfortunate need to breathe, I slid slowly onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck, still slowly panting. Again pressing our lips and bodies together, but with more force, more desire. Feeling his hands move slowly up my shirt, his fingers and palms slowly, delicately stimulating my body, I moaned against his mouth, wanting him to continue. He obliged, and he broke this embrace, much to my chagrin, for a moment, looking into my eyes, and speaking softly, almost shyly, something that would seem so uncharacteristic of him, otherwise. "Rebecca, please, will you let me go further?"  
  
My answer should have been obvious to him, but he always insisted on asking; his insistence on it, though, made me feel special, made me feel as though it was always my judgment that would be decisive, that I was too important not to ask. "Yes, Albert... " I softly replied, my voice almost cracking from my anticipation; I could barely contain myself that night, and I was torn between crying and smiling, shaking with trepidation and anguish and writing in ecstasy. The depths of my emotions that night were almost too great to bear; they're still almost incomprehensible to me, even now.  
  
I felt him gently unbutton my blouse, exposing my heated skin to the cooler air of the apartment, and I shivered as his hands slowly skirted around my chest, and I closed my eyes, silently begging for him to continue. I pressed my lips to his again, but hungrily, unable to wait, unable to contain myself any longer. I had to make love to him, to feel him make love to me; I had to feel his body pressed to mine; I had to feel his warmth, because I didn't know when I'd be able to again. Stripping quickly out of our clothes, we slowly made love, savoring it, but both displaying an intense passion; an enthusiasm born from an overwhelming, incomprehensible bond.  
  
Feeling the cooling sweat on our bodies, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, my head pressed to his heart, I could only close my eyes, and smile. Although I knew that this would be the last time that we'd be together for quite awhile, I also knew that it was worth it to share this bond; to experience such great, pure joy; such incredible ecstasy and love. "Albert," I slowly began, feeling tears form in the corners of my eyes.  
  
"Yes, Rebecca?" Came his response, his voice just as fragile and uncertain as my own.  
  
"Promise me that you'll be all right... Promise me that you won't leave me; promise me."  
  
"Rebecca, you know that I'll never leave you. I've always told you that, and it was never an empty promise. It never will be. There's nothing to be afraid of. Tomorrow will be simple, and, after that, we'll be free from Umbrella... We'll be free from all of this anguish that we endure everyday, that we have to hide from two parties. We'll no longer have to pretend to just be colleagues, to act on two sides. Rebecca, this will be so agonizing for both of us, but we have to do it... I wish that there was some other way, but there isn't."  
  
"Let me, Albert..." I quietly began. "Let me use the virus."  
  
"No, Rebecca..." His voice was mournful.  
  
"Why? Didn't Birkin say that it was 99.9% effective?"  
  
"That won't guarantee that you'll come back... It won't guarantee that I'll be able to sleep at night, that I'll be able to live. "  
  
"I feel the same about you..."  
  
"I'm sorry, Rebecca. Please, just trust me." His lips formed a sad, but still radiant version of his smile.  
  
"I trust this, Albert, but it doesn't make me feel any better..." I still smiled, but mine was just as mournful as his was.  
  
"Thank you..." His face slowly lowered itself to mine, and our lips gently pressed together, without urgency this time.  
  
Parting again, I lowered my head to his chest, and closed my eyes, letting his heartbeat lull me to sleep. "Goodnight, Albert... I love you and I couldn't stop loving you."  
  
"I love you, Rebecca, always."  
  
Damn it... Why is it that my life always faces such anguish, such disaster? I miss him so badly. Tomorrow will be the last day that I'm alone; we'll be reunited. Tomorrow is the last that I'll ever have to endure such agony. Tomorrow...  
  
I love you, Albert. Tomorrow, we'll meet again.  
  
Author's Note: That was a truly angst-ridden chapter, wasn't it? I can't wait to see what occurs in the next chapter, when Rebecca finally escapes Raccoon... Of course, nothing is ever that simple, is it? Again, a massive, eternal, 'thank you,' to all of those people that have read this, and especially those that reviewed it, and a positively monumental shout of appreciation to Cherry... You're the inspiration for this, really, because I don't know if I'd be able to churn out these this quickly without your urging. Guten Nacht, Alle! 


	6. Zero Hour

Author's Note: I apologize for the great delay between this and the previous chapter... It seems that I've ruined any hopes of acquiring a new record. Regardless, I am eternally grateful for all of those magnificently kind reviews and reviewers, and, as usual, a monumental, resounding, 'thank you!,' to Cherry, my wonderful slave driver. Also, I'm very sorry to disappoint, but this will be a very short chapter; it's basically the epilogue to Lonely Lover's Lament, but it is just the transition to a new arc, which is, as of yet, untitled.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else it may be posted and\or archived.  
  
It's finally ended... This horrible agony, this excruciating waiting, has now ceased. The train has arrived, and it's embarking within several minutes. This will probably be my final diary entry, since I'll have no reason to confide in an inanimate piece of paper any longer; however, I will always save this.  
  
The final minutes before everything, my waiting, this intense, horrible peace before the 'storm,' will end... The tension in the air is palpable, and I know that it's not only I. Umbrella is afraid, probably because something did happen in the labs with Birkin, and this train is equipped with extreme security measures. Not only that, but there's something else on this train: B.O.W.s... I'm not certain exactly what they intend to do with them, but I can only assume that they're being prepared for transit to the transit hub in Toronto, for transport to the Paris laboratories... However, I am afraid of what they may do when they learn of HCF's assault on the train; after all, it wouldn't be below Umbrella to order the release of the MA-121s, the MA-103s, and the two T-104 units, just to prevent HCF from succeeding.  
  
As I write this, I'm watching the heavily-armed security guard in this room, a kind, albeit very ignorant man, pace about, his eyes darting around the room, and occasionally lingering on me. It's an innocent look: a look of one with no evil intents, and no knowledge of the true nature of the world. It's obvious that he's just an expendable Umbrella minion; I almost regret that I have to kill him. However, it's essential to guarantee that he's unable to engage the locks in this area, or alert the TRUE security team on the train before HCF secures this part of the train. They'll be breaching this window, and it will be imperative for this sentry to already be lying a pool of his own blood, so that the HCF troops will be certain that it's not a trap.  
  
There's forty seconds to the invasion, and his back is turned. My hands are clenched around my pistol; it's time to act.  
  
Author's Note: Well, basically, that was the epilogue to the "Lonely Lover's Lament" arc. The point-of-view will still be Rebecca's first person, but no longer will it be in a diary form, for the next arc, at least. I must express an extreme amount of gratitude toward all those that have offered such amazing support, and, naturally, my favorite whip- wielder, Cherry.  
  
Preview of next arc:  
  
Drawing my pistol, I took aim at the poor, unassuming sentry's head. I didn't relish this, but I had no choice; it was essential for the invasion to succeed flawlessly. My eyes closing briefly, I applied a gentle, but gradually increasing pressure to the trigger, a brief 'puff' emanating from the suppressed pistol and a gentle metallic clatter as the casing rolled about the ground of the cabin.  
  
Hearing his body tumble to the floor with a gentle thud, the sub-machinegun falling from his grip, I looked up, unconsciously closing my eyes upon seeing the sentry, little more than a boy, with a trickle of red running from the gaping wound in his skull, an unknowing expression forever painted upon his face. Standing, I stood away from the window, a crash issuing just as my watch beeped, one of the large panes imploding... 


End file.
